


menagerie

by Maggiemaye



Series: Circus AU [2]
Category: Scorpion (TV 2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1940s, Alternate Universe - Circus, Anxiety, F/M, First Love, Gen, Homelessness, Lions, Mild Language, Period-Typical Animal Abuse, kenneth dodd is the worst, parental abandonment, tags to be updated, this will live up to its rating in later chapters if all goes as planned
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-29
Updated: 2018-05-05
Packaged: 2018-12-08 08:08:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11642445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maggiemaye/pseuds/Maggiemaye
Summary: They didn’t understand that the cats were animals, and animals responded to repetition. The tiniest movement over and over again until it became second nature. Sylvester, whose entire life was color-coded and rank-ordered, could relate to this.





	1. i wanna get square

**Author's Note:**

> Part 2 of the series finally! This fic could probably be a standalone, but if you'd like a better sense of the 'verse I would recommend reading the first fic in the series before this one. Chapter titles are lyrics from "A Gift For Melody Anne" by The Avett Brothers, which I would also recommend if you like mood music. I hope you guys enjoy! And of course feel free to let me know what you think :) I go by @mirkwood-meriwether on Tumblr if you'd like to say hi!
> 
> Just a note: this fic will touch on some themes of parental abandonment and animal abuse (specifically this chapter) as well as anxiety stuff that I'll note as it comes up.

Sylvester Dodd’s clearest memory was of his father.

Being born into the circus should have provided him with countless clear memories, each more incredible than the last. But Sylvester didn’t know enough about normal life to be impressed by the oddities that were part of his every day. His childhood was comprised of three elements: the train, the big cats, and his father.

It stood to reason that Sylvester would be comfortable around lions, considering that he had never spent a day away from them while growing up. Reason, however, could not always be relied upon to increase confidence. It was reason that kept Sylvester aware of the bone-crushing strength of the cats’ jaws, and their sheer size. More often than not, he vomited behind the nearest train car before ever stepping into a lion’s cage. But he never failed to appear when his father called him to practice or study. He was meant to follow in his father’s footsteps; if the shoes didn’t seem to fit, then Sylvester would just have to make them fit by whatever means he could.

Kenneth Dodd was a well-known lion tamer, whose reputation preceded him everywhere they went. He went by The General in the ring, and Sylvester grew to think it was an appropriate name for him all the time. Even long after the last time they saw each other, the memory of that encounter remained sharp in his mind. He’d been fifteen years old, practicing with the cats as he did every morning, when his father had placed the whip in his hand.

“It’s about domination, son,” he had said as Sylvester listened silently. “Man versus nature. Even the wildest animal can be broken.”

Except. Sylvester had grown up watching the lions, and he had noticed things. When his father and the other tamers hit them or poked them with sticks, it made them sharper and more volatile before it ever subdued them. They didn’t understand that the cats were animals, and animals responded to repetition. The tiniest movement over and over again until it became second nature. Sylvester, whose entire life was color-coded and rank-ordered, could relate to this. 

At its heart, taming was about patience. Or, at least, Sylvester thought it should be. It was the only way to make lasting progress. The General, needless to say, did not agree.

“Watch and learn,” his father had said that day, before taking the whip and stepping into the cage. And Sylvester had done both. He’d watched the lion (and listened to his desperate howl) as The General beat him into frenzy, rage, and finally submission. 

He had learned that he would never truly follow in his father’s footsteps after all.

This was Sylvester’s clearest memory. After his father had exited the cage and stared at him, the mix of triumph and challenge blazing out from his eyes, Sylvester had handed the whip back to him with a shaking hand. 

“No,” he had said, and that one word had felt like a mutiny. He could tell that he’d taken The General by surprise; Sylvester tried to forget the way his knees trembled as his father leaned into his space. They were already almost the same height. 

“What do you mean, ‘no?’ You think you can do better your way?”

“I won’t do it _your_ way, Dad.”

Sylvester’s father had looked him unflinchingly in the eyes, and Sylvester knew this was the last time they would see each other for a long while.

“Then you’re useless to me.” He brandished the whip in Sylvester’s face. “Go find another train, and good luck lasting a week without this.” 


	2. beat beat down by the big big world

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'ALL. I can't tell you how excited I am to finally be adding to this AU. I have missed Sylvester (and the rest of the gang of course), and I've missed sharing fic with you all :) It might be a good idea to refresh your memory on chapter 1 if you need to, since it's been SO LONG between updates.
> 
> Just a note: this chapter alludes to Sylvester's anxiety/possible trauma-related reactions. It also mentions what could be interpreted as OCD features. The mentions are very quick and not detailed in any way, but here is your heads-up just in case you don't want to see that content.
> 
> Thank you to Shan the angel llama for giving me feedback and encouragement! Comments will be appreciated and fangirled over if you have time to leave one!

After that day, Sylvester tried not to think about anything long enough to make clear memories. Without a home, without the cats that had shaped his entire life, nothing seemed worth remembering. It did not take long for him to grasp the fact that his own father had truly left him to fend for himself. The longer process was figuring out just what in the hell he was supposed to do next.

He hitched his way to Kentucky to stay with his uncle, unsure of where else to go. There was a long stint in a coal mine that he never wanted to think about again; he lied about his age to get the job, and spent day after day in a dark, dusty hell. One day there was a cave-in right behind him. The horrific crash rang in his ears all night long, as well as the screaming that echoed off the walls from every possible direction. So he stayed home the next day and the day after, shaking, listening to the voice in his head chanting  _ useless useless useless. _ Sylvester could never tell if the voice was his father’s or his own; they ended up sounding the same.

“I don’t want to do this, Sylvester,” his uncle said after several weeks of this. “But if you’re not going to work, I can’t let you stay here anymore.”

“I understand,” he said. And he did. It was important for him to be able to earn his keep. But he just couldn’t, at least not in a mine. The problem was that without the cats, he didn’t know how to pull his weight anywhere.

And so began Sylvester’s days of wandering. It did not suit him well. Every now and then he’d land a job that he could stay with for a few months, until the people or the noise became too much. He lived hand to mouth the rest of the time; stealing food, sleeping in doorways, collecting ripped-out comic book pages whenever he came across them. Sometimes he tried to piece a story together out of the fragmented comics; something funny to distract him from the fact that he was cold and tired and completely, hopelessly lost. He liked the superhero stories best. No matter what obstacles stood in their way, they always saved the day in the end. It was a nice idea, even if he knew it was a fantasy to picture himself as one of those heroes. Sylvester had never done anything good in his life.

He didn’t see another circus until he was nineteen years old.

The red and black striped tents rose with the dawn, having swooped in overnight on a long train, as Sylvester watched from a distance. He had sworn off the idea of going anywhere near a circus again, certain that it would only lead to pain. But the pull of familiarity was strong. Sylvester felt as if he had been in a constant state of clenched dread since he’d left his home, never able to relax the knots in his stomach. Maybe just a few hours there would give him some relief, he thought, even though this particular circus was not at all similar to what he had grown up in. Sylvester couldn’t put his finger on it.

When enough people had gathered that he felt confident he wouldn’t be noticed, he slipped past the greying strongman and entered the grounds. To his left was the big top; a dull roar of chatter and laughter wafted out, muffled by the canvas walls. Behind this largest tent were two smaller ones, painted in the same red and black pattern. And even farther in the distance Sylvester could see the train.

He started walking before he had quite decided where he wanted to go. The performances inside the tent did not interest him, but the train seemed to pull him onward like a beacon. Sylvester shook off the sudden feeling of lightness as he made his way forward.  _ Just for a few minutes _ , he promised himself.      

Every third car had a large scorpion emblazoned on the side. Sylvester didn’t know what they signified, but the smell of stable cars was strong enough to be used as a reliable guide to where he was headed. The closer he got, the more the scent of hay and meat and animals—the scent of  _ home _ —threatened to overpower him. Sylvester shut his eyes against pricking tears and pressed on.

The first stable car he entered was a disaster that his eye for imperfections would not let him ignore. Someone may have started to clean the place, but they clearly hadn’t bothered to finish, and there was no way Sylvester could allow animals to be housed in stalls so neglected. He fleetingly thought that it was probably a good thing he was focused on all the work that needed to be done, rather than dwelling in memories of another train and stable.

He grabbed a shovel from against the wall, consumed by the need to get the place in some sort of passable shape. There had been a time, as a child, when this would have been a dilemma: make contact with dirt and manure, or leave his surroundings in intolerable disarray? But the past few years had shoved cleanliness so far down Sylvester’s list of priorities that the decision was easy. Peace began to melt over him as he worked. He had never found any kind of satisfaction from shoveling shit before, but he couldn’t deny the pleasure he felt in looking around and seeing how much better things looked.

He was so absorbed in his tasks that he didn’t hear anyone approaching until a voice—male, dry as toast, and unamused—made him jump out of his skin.

“Well, you’re certainly the most  _ helpful  _ stowaway we’ve had in a while. Wouldn’t you say, Walter?”

Sylvester dropped the shovel with a clang and turned around. Facing him were two men; the strongman he’d seen watching the entrance, and a younger, shaggy-haired man wearing a crimson jacket. A scorpion was embroidered on his lapel with silver thread, the same design from the train cars. Sylvester stood frozen, waiting for them to drag him out by the arms and toss him outside the grounds. He’d been prepared for it to happen at some point.

He had never considered, however, that the opposite might happen. An outcome for which Sylvester was completely unprepared.


End file.
